bragging about—­not a weak, foolish boy whom everybody can turn around their fingers.  Some of my girl friends don’t mind what the young men do, or how often they break their word to them so that they are sure of their love.  I do, and I won’t have it, and I have told Harry so over and over again.  It’s such a cowardly thing—­not to be man enough to stand up and say ’No—­I won’t drink with you!’ That’s why I say I can’t think of his doing anything worse.”

St. George fixed his eyes upon her.  He had thought he knew the girl’s heart, but this was a revelation to him.  Perhaps her sorrow, like that of her mother, was making a well-rounded woman of her.

“Oh, I can think of a dozen things worse,” he rejoined with some positiveness.  “Harry might lie; Harry might be a coward; Harry might stand by and hear a friend defamed; Harry might be discourteous to a woman, or allow another man to be—­a thing he’d rather die than permit.  None of these things could he be or do.  I’d shut my door in his face if he did any one of them, and so should you.  And then he is so penitent when he has done anything wrong.  ’It was my fault—­I would rather hang myself than lose Kate.  I haven’t slept a wink, Uncle George.’  And he was so handsome when he came in this morning—­his big black eyes flashing, his cheeks like two roses—­so straight and strong, and so graceful and wholesome and lovable.  I wouldn’t care, if I were you, if he did slip once in a while—­not any more than I would if Spitfire stumbled.  And then again”—­here he moved his chair close to her own so he could get his hand on hers the easier—­“if Spitfire does stumble, there is the bridle to pull her up, but for this she might break her neck.  That’s where you come in, Kate.  Harry’s in your hands—­has been since the hour he loved you.  Don’t let him go headlong to the devil—­and he will if you turn him loose without a bridle.”

“I can’t do him any good—­he won’t mind anything I say.  And what dependence can I place on him after this?” her voice sank to a tone of helpless tenderness.  “It isn’t his being drunk altogether; he will outgrow that, perhaps, as you say you did, and be man enough to say no next time; but it’s because he broke his promise to me.  That he will never outgrow!  Oh, it’s wicked!—­wicked for him to treat me so.  I have never done anything he didn’t want me to do! and he has no right to—­Oh, Uncle George, it’s—­”

St. George leaned nearer and covered her limp fingers with his own tender grasp.

“Try him once more, Kate.  Let me send him to you.  It will be all over in a minute and you will be so happy—­both of you!  Nothing like making up—­ it really pays for the pain of a quarrel.”